


Woke Up Dead

by virtueofvice



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama, Eavesdropping, F/M, Masturbation, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-04 00:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4120401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtueofvice/pseuds/virtueofvice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boone overhears something he wasn't meant to in the King's House of Impersonation, and can't handle it. But kindred spirits are rare in the Mojave, and some destinies cannot be avoided, only postponed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Darling, I believed that we were real_   
>  _You were the only thing that I could touch and feel_   
>  _Oh please, please tell me that it's all a lie_   
>  _We were born to love like we were born to die_   
>  _And all my rivers, and all my guns_   
>  _Have led me here, what have you done?_
> 
> **Kyla La Grange, "Woke Up Dead"**
> 
> Companion Playlist: http://8tracks.com/virtueofvice/fallout-new-vegas-woke-up-dead

It had been a long, hard run. Ambushed by Legionary assassins on the outskirts of Fiend territory, by the time they arrived back in Freeside their stimpaks were a thing of the past and all the shops were closed, even the Wrangler. The unusual silence of the town heralded a freak electrical storm, great indigo thunderheads rolling across the Mojave in a weird arid blackout.

The King's House of Impersonation opened its doors to Rex's bark and the Courier's knock. The generally harmless and well-intentioned gang made room for the Courier, who was a well-known visitor, and her merry band of gun-toting strays. The King himself made an appearance, emerging from the upper floors to greet Red warmly, taking her hands in both of his as if greeting an old friend. Red smiled broadly, eyes slitting like a cat's in bemusement at seeing a favored companion. Adjusting his red beret, Boone scowled and stomped upstairs to the room he had been assigned. 

The sniper's head hit the mattress in the darkness of his room. There were plenty of rooms to spare in the large building, and Boone had received one to himself, which he divined was next to the King's room when he ran into the gang leader in the worn hallway lit by yellowing fluorescent lights. 

"Evening, soldier boy." The King greeted cordially before stepping through his own doorway. Boone made no response save a nod, unable to gauge whether there was an intended insult in the greeting. He thought not. 

He lay on his back in the oversized bed, rifle cleaned, loaded and lying beside him, a lethal wife to replace the lost one. He stared at the ceiling, the warped tiles almost fading into the blackness of unconsciousness when he heard voices in the room beyond. The King's room. Almost against his will, his sniper ears perked up, listening in. 

The tones murmured softly, and he could make out nothing of what was said. But the low, lilting drawl was obviously the King, and he had a female visitor. Only a moment had passed before her tone and cadence identified her as the Courier. Boone's gut twisted, and he scowled. What was she doing with him at this hour?

A long silence answered his straining ears, abandoning even the pretense of restraint as he eavesdropped with impunity. But he heard nothing, or almost nothing, for several moments - till the rustle of fabric and creak of springs punctuated the silence. He gritted his teeth, feeling as if a throwing spear had lanced through his chest. A low male chuckle, followed by a murmur that turned up at the end, like a question. The Courier's throaty giggle, a laugh he had never heard from her before, made him flush and grip his rifle, hastily setting it down again lest he do something foolish. _Stay frosty, Boone._ The sniper admonished himself, even as he listened to the thunk of boots, weapons and armor dropping to the floor. 

He rolled over onto his stomach, raising his arms over his head in an attempt to muffle the sounds, since apparently the Wasteland was virtually devoid of pillows. But the attempt did nothing, and he felt his heart begin to pound, pulse throbbing heavily through him as he listened to her. 

The King was more or less silent, at first - apparently an attentive lover, the Courier's sighing whimpers became audible well before his own lower, subtler sounds of pleasure. Boone found himself suddenly rock-hard and trying like hell to keep from thrusting into the mattress, and he rolled over onto his back again with a groan, deliberately not looking down. 

The change in position made it even easier to hear, however, and after several tortuous minutes had ticked by he could no longer resist the urge to bring his hand down to the snap of his NCR khakis. He drew the zipper down, shutting his eyes tightly as if that could conceal the knowledge of what he was doing, and wrapped his hand around his rigid cock. "Fuck!" He hissed, pumping slowly. A pearly gleam at the head slicked over his palm and fingers and made the motion faster, rougher. His free hand fisted in the worn blanket that lay beneath him. Through the thin wall, the sound of flesh against flesh grew faster, and the Courier's quiet moans turned to needy, breathless keening. 

It had been a long time. Release of any sort was not a thing that Boone prescribed to often, intending instead to white-knuckle his way through the remainder of the Legion army until he dropped of exhaustion or a bullet in the desert somewhere. He was unprepared for how erotic it would be to hear their fearless leader, receiving a good and proper pounding from another man. Sweat stood out on his brow, kindled in the mingling fires of fury, jealousy, and lust. He thrust into his hand, head tilting back as he teetered on the edge of climax, and heard Red's triumphant, "Fuck, yes!" Biting down on his fist to stifle a groan - a courtesy the King did not extend - Boone came like a freight train. Hot jets of semen splattered his bare chest and for a long moment he was too exhausted and delirious with relief to give a thought to disgust, or finding a towel.

As it turned out, the Wasteland was also virtually devoid of towels. 

"Fuck everything." He muttered, when the evidence of his indiscretion was cleaned up and he'd dressed himself. Grabbing his rifle, he pulled on his beret and stormed out of the building and into the night. The storm, despite dire expectations, had blown harmlessly past and missed Freeside entirely.


	2. Chapter 2

It's hard to get a word in edgewise at the Atomic Wrangler on a weekend; harder still to get a moment alone with the King in Freeside, regardless of venue. Still, with the tactical precision that had landed him in First Recon, the sniper found a way. The King sat across from him at a rickety table, looking sharp in an astonishingly clean white suit, sipping from a highball as he studied Boone with polite interest and waited for the soldier to present his grievance.

"You fucked the Courier last night." Boone growled bluntly, gaze flat and hard. "Why?"

The King stared at him for half a beat, pale eyes blinking slowly as if Boone had taken leave of his senses. Which was not an unreasonable assessment. "Have you seen her, man?" He finally drawled, as if it were an obvious truth. Also not an unreasonable assessment. "Would you tell her no, if she came to your room all hot and bothered?"

Boone's eyes narrowed, jaw clenching almost imperceptibly. "Enough." He snapped. From behind them, he heard the Courier laugh at some abrasive comment from Cass. While it was markedly different from her amorous giggle of the night before, he could not help but draw the comparison, and his blood boiled. He glanced over his shoulder, where the woman in question still laughed with Arcade and Veronica at the bar, whiskey roses blooming on her cheeks. "She came to you? Why?"

"I suppose because she had an itch she couldn't get scratched elsewhere." The King eyed him thoughtfully, seemingly unperturbed by the younger man's rudeness. "And the King isn't too hard on the eyes, or so I'd like to think."

One hand gripped the barrel of his rifle beneath the tabletop, the weapon leaning harmlessly against the worn wood though he itched to take it up and use it. The look Red had given him weeks ago came back to him now. She had come to his room, entered without knocking while he sat polishing his rifle and brooding about death and memory. She had invaded his personal space, her intentions unclear (at least to him) behind sparkling eyes and a coy smirk. That moment, pregnant with silence and ghosts, when he had taken her upper arms and pushed her away from himself, demanding solitude… An itch, indeed. His teeth gritted together, a flush coloring weathered cheeks. "Was she drunk?" He asked quietly, voice steadier than he'd thought it would be. 

"Does the King seem like a man who'd take advantage of a lady when she's loaded?" The gang leader replied, raising one eyebrow.

Boone studied him for a long moment. "No." He finally admitted, grudgingly. "Lucky for you." A long pause followed his sentence, as the King tipped a little more alcohol into his glass from a dented flask in his breast pocket. Boone glanced over his shoulder again, the Courier giving him an oblivious little wave as she caught his eye. His lips thinned to a line and he turned back to the table. 

The King broke the wary silence, took a sip of his Nuka-and-whiskey, tapped a fingertip on the scarred tabletop to draw attention back to the matter at hand. "Look, we're not an item. She made that perfectly clear before I ever touched her. But for a man to ignore that fast little number-"

"Watch it, King."

"For me - for any man to ignore her, when she wanted some loving, he'd have to be dead below the waist. And I can assure you the King is not." 

_Dead below the waist._ Boone burned with shame. Maybe he was dead all over, to have turned her away when she was wanting. To have held her at arm's length when she'd shown him in every way a person could that she wanted to know him better. 

The King was still talking, low and audible only to themselves, politely (and deliberately) oblivious to Boone's internal turmoil. "I wasn't about to tell her no. But, I'll tell her no next time - assuming there is a next time - if it keeps me out of those crosshairs." He tapped the butt of Boone's rifle with one long finger, and Boone resented the intrusion almost as much as he had resented the same touch on the Courier. "Not that I wouldn't love the opportunity," he said, gazing past Boone wistfully in the direction of the bar. "But the King still has work to do on this worn-out rock, and I ain't itching to leave it just yet. Give my regards to Lady Red, would you?"

The King finished his drink and excused himself, classy as only he could be in the face of a threatening man who had demanded intimate details of his personal life over lukewarm booze in a dive bar. Boone felt somewhat embarrassed, the older man's self-control and matter-of-fact manner throwing cold water on his rage. The jealousy still smoldered, and he suspected would continue to do so, but he found he could not hate the King.


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm having a muscle spasm, in my back. Could you just…?"

Boone hesitated outside the Courier's door, hand raised to knock. Her voice from within, clearly addressing someone, gave him pause. Who would be close enough to Red, that she would willingly ask for contact, let alone assistance in a moment of physical weakness? He could think of only one, and his jaw tensed. If the King was in there, after he'd agreed to keep his distance… He opened the door quietly, and an expression of consternation crossed his typically impassive features.

The Courier sat on a low stool before a weathered vanity, still in her armor. She was alone, for all intents and purposes. The stealth suit was rippling around her shoulders, contracting and releasing in a subtle pattern up and down her back that resembled a cat stretching. The courier tilted her head to one side, sighing in contentment, vibrant red hair spilling over one shoulder. 

Boone cleared his throat to announce his presence, clearly disconcerted by the suit's activities. The Courier looked at his reflection in the spotty mirror over the vanity and huffed out a sigh. The suit said sweetly, "Optimum muscle relaxation - reached. Capillary circulation increased by thirty percent. Core temperature ninety-nine point seven degrees Fahrenheit." 

"Thank you, suit." Red said absently, reaching for the zipper beneath her right arm and drawing it down as she stepped behind a threadbare and patchy silk screen. She was tall enough that she could look him in the eye over the upper frame of the screen, faded herons and reeds doing little to conceal the shape of her body. The suit, sleek and dark, left little to the imagination - but the screen left even less. Boone felt himself flush and turned away. From behind the flimsy barrier he heard the suit's plaintive chirp - "I'll miss you!" - as Red folded it and placed it in the locker.

The Courier interpreted his refusal to face her as an expression of disapproval. He had never liked the suit's overly friendly, fawning manner. "I had a cramp." She explained carelessly, raising a brow at his silence. When he still did not reply she clicked her tongue and informed him, "A girl has needs, Boone." 

Stepping around the screen and tying a satin belt around her waist to hold the bathrobe closed, she crossed the room. Her feet were bare, the Pip Boy resting on a table beside the bed. "What do you want?" 

She had drawn very close to him, stance slightly combative, and despite the near-hostility of her manner he could focus on nothing but the scent of the desert-flower perfume Arcade and Veronica had made for her. 

"I heard you spoke to the King last night." _Ah._ That explained her distant behavior, the unusually stilted manner of their always seamless cooperation while on patrol. 

He couldn't blame the King for telling her. She was a grown woman the gang leader obviously respected. He had been a fool to assume otherwise, or to count on the older man's silence when the King owed him no such consideration. Nothing to do now but bite the bullet. "I wanted to know what you were doing with him." 

"What, like you needed an illustration?" She snapped; knowing that if he had heard anything, he'd heard everything. It was not in Boone's nature to let things go. She looked away from him impatiently, lighting a cigarette with a dismissive gesture. "I told you. A girl has needs."

Suddenly he was inches away, palms slamming into the cracked wall on either side of her. "And the King meets them, is that it?" His heart thudded in his chest, jaw tense, dark eyes glinting behind the tinted glasses he rarely took off. His fingers curled against the worn wallpaper and plaster as if he would rip chunks of it out. His own breathing was loud in his ears.

She smirked at him, exhaled smoke a stormcloud over her reply. "Do you want me, Boone?" She purred, cupping the answer in the palm of her hand and rubbing firmly. "Is that what this is about?"

He groaned, unable to stop himself from thrusting into her coaxing hand. Her touch was practiced, demanding, confident - everything that defined the rest of her. He shut his eyes, her lips so close to his when she spoke that for a moment he knew only sensation, not language. 

"Too bad." And she left him there, aching with the want of her, and furious.

"Bitch." He growled, and took himself off to his own room. The scent of her perfume followed him - desert flower and cigarettes, gunpowder and sex.


	4. Chapter 4

She would disappear, sometimes for weeks, untraceable. No one found the Courier unless she wanted to be found. She was a rumor on the wind, the crackle of gunfire in the distance, a blip on a RobCo monitor that disappeared off the edge of the map. 

And still the petitions came, while she was gone. Soldiers, politicians, gang leaders, do-gooders and grieving widows. He'd never set out to be everyone's personal mercenary. He'd just wanted to kill Legionaries. But with the crimson crusaders growing scarce on the ground, he found himself with nothing better to do than wait and work. The constant activity calmed his irascible trigger finger and the whispering from the base of his skull that kept him up at night. 

The Lucky 38 had pillows. It was a luxury he'd never thought to expect. The soft living of the place was so alien that at first he couldn't rest easy, pacing the empty casino floor all night like a restive ghost. She had been gone for a month, yet every pillow in every room somehow smelled like her. Her problems became his problems, in her absence. Her responsibilities, on his shoulders - a lopsided penance, paying for his own sins with her currency. _We deal in lead._

They were all here, all Red's strays; bound by loyalty or obligation, idealism or a lack of anything better to do. There was something about the Courier that drew people to her, something she couldn't seem to help. A brusque charisma, vulnerability and cold metal. She pulled them in for a moment and they stayed to the end. Like him. 

And with her gone, they all looked to Boone. They functioned with the unspoken understanding that he was second in command, assuming he knew her better than anyone else. The idea made him grit his teeth and scowl even as he shouldered the burden with the grudging resolve of a good soldier. If he knew her that well, he wouldn't be in this mess - dreaming of her at night, all trembling flame, and firing bullets for her in the morning. 

Her silence, her casual willingness to leave affairs in his hands during her absence, spoke volumes about her trust in him. And yet, it was not without a cruel sense of drama. She would vanish, and those left behind would struggle and strive, and fight and bleed and blindly hope; and she would stagger back in just when all was almost lost without her, a swagger in her step, tearing the seal off a stimpack with her teeth. "Buckle up kids, time to get cracking," she'd wink, then pick up her Repeater and head back into the breach.

He hated her. He admired her so much he thought he might choke on it. He wanted to grasp her, taste her, peel her apart layer by layer and see what was broken inside her that made her so essentially good and so abominably destructive. He found he could not be rid of her - even in her absence, she haunted him; thoughts aflame in red silk and gunfire. 

He worked, he patrolled. The desert was a mirror, casting his hunger and frustration back at him in muted neutral tones and blooming pinks, dark velvet twilight, the quiet gasps of dying stars. 

The 38 was a microcosm, a small gem glimmering dully in the larger masterpiece that was the Strip. They managed to avoid one another, but just barely. The tension was ever-present, the warning scent of smoke to herald the approach of a wildfire. 

"How long do you think they can keep this up?" Boone heard Arcade whisper to Veronica, sipping whiskey at the bar on the casino floor, glasses reflecting the worn patterned carpet as the doctor trained his eyes downward. The words he had intended to keep secret bounced back in an echoing susurration from the vaulted ceiling. Veronica shrugged, looking anxious and uncomfortable as her dark eyes flicked to the sniper in the entryway. 

The Courier had preceded him by ten minutes or so, clearly irate, the dust of a busy evening on her boots and armor. Though he had joined her on patrol, the friction between them had been distractingly intense. She had left him standing in the street, storming off when the silence grew too pointed to bear. 

"Not much longer." Boone growled in response to the echo, walking past them into the elevator, and pushing the command key for the Presidential Suite.


	5. Chapter 5

The elevator chimed, announcing his arrival, and Boone stepped out. Whatever version of the Courier he had expected to find within the Presidential Suite - orator, warrior, temptress - it was not the one he found. She was in plainclothes, a white tank and soft denim jeans, washed many times and bleached by the sun, the dun grey no-color of all well-worn fabrics in the desert. Her hair was unbound, a spill of shimmering red over one shoulder and down her back. He wondered again what it was about her - _radiation? genetic modification?_ \- that made her seem to almost glow with a subtle yet vibrant light, her brilliant hair and bloodless skin impervious to the punishing Mojave sun. 

"Sit. We need to talk." 

Boone eyed her for a moment; then, ever the good soldier, set down his rifle and followed the order. Brisk compliance was his forte; conversation less so. He itched to reach for his gun and begin cleaning it, small familiar noises to fill this awkward void. Finally she spoke. 

"I know things have been… strained… between us. I apologize."

In that moment, the sniper admired her immensely. For all the respect and affection she showed to her companions, for all that she deferred to his opinion on certain matters; the Courier was a leader, and he was not. His time in the military had taught him just how infrequently leaders are called upon to apologize, and how much more infrequently they submit to that call. The Courier was humbling herself before him, when in truth the fault lay at his feet. 

He studied his hands for a moment. "You don't owe me anything."

"I owe you my life. Several times over." The Courier rejoined. Boone privately doubted that was true - Red seemed indestructible, indomitable. Each time she fell she rose again, more ferocious than ever - a phoenix of unilateral devastation. But it was a generous thing to say. She continued, her hands punctuating the words with mildly emphatic gestures. "I am not apologizing for what you overheard in Freeside. That was my business and I am entitled to it. But I am sorry… if it caused you pain. I never would have guessed."

"You and me both." Boone muttered wryly, and looked up, meeting her gaze. "But here I am. And I don't know what to do with it."

The Courier bit her lip, a little pensive; uncurled her legs from beneath her in a restless shift. "Which brings me to my next point. I want you to come with me." Boone's eyes, for once not shielded behind his trademark glasses, flicked to the suite's inner doorway behind her. Following his gaze, the Courier smirked. He thought he saw the hint of a blush coloring her white cheeks. "Don't kick your boots off just yet. I mean to Arizona."

It was Boone's turn to flush, hoping the weathered tan on his own skin would hide it. Fortunately, her request provided a handy distraction. "Arizona? It's crawling with Legion."

"I know. But after the Dam, and wiping out Cottonwood and the Fort, and Dry Wells…" This last in a whisper, as if she dared not speak the name. Boone was reminded again just how dangerous she was - pale and slim, large eyes and soft hair, every inch of her infuriatingly desirable, responsible for the deaths of thousands. It was awe-inspiring. If he were a better man, it might have been horrifying, repellant. But he wasn't. And it wasn't. 

"I think we could take them. And I can't stay here, now. Things are too quiet. You know what I'm like." Not _you know how it is_ , but _you know what I'm like._ He understood. And It was true. Peace had been hard-won but balance was precarious in the Mojave and ever had been. The Courier was a destructive force - fundamentally good; but dynamic, volatile, impossible to control. He looked at her and saw the land, fertile again after some catastrophic fire and storm. She was the catalyst that changed everything, but could never linger to enjoy her vision realized, lest she scatter all the pieces from the chessboard once again. 

"Who are you taking?" He asked carefully, avoiding her gaze as the air hissed out of him in a slow sigh; controlled pressure release to keep his tone from giving him away. 

"Just you. And ED-E. We'll need his help, I think." 

Boone gaped. Only the Courier, he thought, would consider a direct assault on enemy territory with two fighters and an eyebot for company an enticing proposition. And yet, he felt his pulse quicken at the prospect. It had been too long since crimson had lit up the end of his scope. His hands were greedy for the solid weight of his rifle, or the sweet warmth of supple skin. He took a breath, leaned forward, her confidence and quiet enthusiasm infectious. 

"Do you have a plan?"

"I thought we'd start by killing Legionaries. That always seems to go well." Her smirk was back, tugging at the corner of her mouth like a tell in poker. "And then I thought, when we're not killing Legionaries, we could get to know each other better." She reached out, fingertips light against his leg, tapping the back of his hand twice before retreating to her comfort zone once again. 

Boone watched her, mind filling up with visions of red upon red; her hair over the packed desert earth beside a campfire, carmine splashes on crimson through his scope, a tattered flag bearing a broken Bull against a blazing sunset sky. He felt himself swallow, felt himself nod. "That sounds like a hell of a plan."

"Thought you'd like it." The Courier grinned back. "Get packing. We leave as soon as I get back."

"Where are you going?" He asked, caught off guard as ever by the speed with which she changed tacks. 

Red pulled out an orange, glowing object from her pack. It bore humming bluish coils and looked like a weapon; though without the vague menace most firearms possess. She held it like a gun, and yet it was not a gun. He knew better than to ask where she'd gotten it, or what obscure purpose it served. The Courier was nothing if not mysterious. 

"Just going to get some toys out of storage." She answered cryptically, and got to her feet, taking two steps toward the door. On a whim, she stopped, stepped back, and bent to press her lips to his. The kiss was brief, almost friendly; but if he had harbored any doubts as to her intentions, they were extinguished. 

Boone watched her go, impatience thrumming beneath his skin as the feel of her mouth settled into his blood and stayed there. Arizona, it seemed, held a wholly new appeal.


	6. Chapter 6

The Courier sprinted across the open courtyard, the sound of gunfire at her heels. She glanced back over her shoulder at Boone, also bolting at top speed for the cover of the building opposite, and flashed him a devil-may-care smile. Hearing the sizzle and whine of a stick of dynamite as it whizzed past his ear, he lunged forward, looping an arm around her waist, and crashed through the brittle boards covering the doorway into a shadowed interior. Winded as they hit the floor, she laughed breathlessly as the dynamite exploded harmlessly several yards to the left, outside on the packed earth of the square. Boone lay atop her, profoundly aware of the shape of her in the dark, and she twisted her hips beneath him to remind him of the matter at hand. 

"Let me up! Bad guys!"

The little town they had found themselves in had been abandoned for ages, subject first to a plague of giant mantis and, later, to Legion scouts interested in its deep wells. The mantises had been easily dispatched, the scouts slightly less so. Deep-rooted superstition rife in Caesar's infantry meant his soldiers preferred to make camp rather than try their luck in a ghost town, and it would have been possible to avoid the handful of soldiers left to control the area. When Boone had mentioned this however, earlier in the day, the Courier had scoffed and bared her teeth in a predator's grin. "Avoid them? What do you think we're here for?"

Released from captivity as Boone rolled to his feet, the Courier crouched, lowering her helmet and using its night vision function to assess the room. It was empty, the mantis nest they had uncovered and burned the night before apparently the only one. Boone stood before a long, tapering crack in the board over the window, sighting through his scope. She watched his chest draw in a deep breath, watched his finger curl (tighter-tighter-tighter) over the trigger - still jumped when the bullet erupted from the muzzle of the gun, though she'd been anticipating it. When the single crack silenced the patter of insistent fire that had chased them, she relaxed, feeling the ebb and flow of adrenaline and triumph. 

She rose to her feet, pulling off her helmet and dropping it beside her pack and rifle. The duster she spread on the worn and gritty floor, a small bit of comfort in a comfortless world. Boone set down his rifle, adding his own jacket to hers and unbuckling his armor. Red did the same, heavy riot gear and boots dropping to the floor with a thunk. Clad in just her underclothes, she approached Boone, running her hands over his biceps as she embraced him from behind. 

It was a testament to his trust in her, and the curative effect of their little vacation, that he did not flinch when she touched him. The past few weeks had been hugely instrumental in bridging the gap, but he held no illusions about their status as damaged people. **Sniper** is a title attractive to those with an aversion to contact and intimacy. 

"It's so hot when you save us." She murmured teasingly, cheek pressed against the curve of his shoulder. 

"Mmm." He chuckled, no more than a low rumble in his chest. "As if you've ever needed saving a day in your life." 

She pressed a kiss to his neck, fingernails scratching over the sculpted firmness of his belly. "Very funny. I might tomorrow. ED-E tells me there's a centurion encampment over the next ridge. He's doing recon tonight." 

"An entire century between the three of us?" He raised his eyebrows, turning to face her. "Are you serious?"

"What, you don't think there will be enough of them to go around?" Red asked, the picture of innocence. Only the twitch in the corner of her mouth, that smirking tell, gave her away. "I'll save you some."

He turned with her, backed her against the wall, hands at her hips heavy and hot. "I always knew you'd be the death of me." 

It was far from the first time he'd said it - it was a sentiment that had crossed his lips before, when a fight was going badly and all seemed to be lost. Indeed, in the Courier's company the phrase was so overused as to be almost trite, dusty and worn as their boots with the violent roads they'd traveled. But this was different - there was laughter in his voice, and heat, and something that was not love, not yet, but could become it. _Respect. Camaraderie._ He looked at her and his eyes were unguarded and for a moment everything was perfect again. And they were damaged, they were weapons perpetually seeking out the next target, but it made sense in the Mojave. They fit with the desert and they fit with each other and the sound of their rifles split the clear blue sky in the day, glinting under the harsh sun; and at night her gasping whimpers spiraled heavenward with the sparks from their campfire and all was right with the world. He kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her; and it was the only thing in the world that felt better than a gun in the hand. 

"God, I want you." A growl against her ear, rough fingers buried in her hair bringing her back down to earth again. She hooked fingers over the hem of his khakis, fingers working to free the snap and draw the zipper down. 

"Here I am." She goaded, coaxing hand stroking her prize. 

He dragged her pants down roughly, gripping her thighs when she was free of them and hoisting her up. "Hold onto me."

The Courier bit her lip, a lock of hair falling between her eyes and tickling her nose. Her arms clinging to his shoulders, she puffed out a breath to chase it away, then inhaled a gasp. Boone's right hand was bruisingly tight on her hip, pressing her into the wall. His left guided his cock, sliding over her slick heat, the head nudging her clit. At her whimper he pressed again, more deliberately, her essence wet and gleaming on his thick shaft. He stared down between their bodies, the sight of his cock pressing into her soft, pale flower one that would haunt him at inopportune moments for weeks to come. When he was fully sheathed in her he paused, adjusting his grip on her hips, meeting her eyes. 

She squirmed, fingernails in his shoulders communicating her urgency better than words ever could. "Fuck me!" Well, most words.

Boone complied. The pace he set was quick, rough, characterized by an edge of desperation as so many things in the desert were. She pulled a hand from around his neck and touched herself where their bodies joined, fingertips a fluttering pressure on his already sensitive cock. "Boone, fuck, fuckfuckfuck…"

She fell apart under the onslaught almost immediately, going nuclear in his arms. Vulgar, vibrant; insatiably, unapologetically herself - he could so easily lose himself in her, Boone thought dizzily, and then did, the pressure that had been building from the base of his spine crashing over him, dragging a sharp cry from his throat. 

"Jesus, Red," he huffed, letting her down but holding her close. He told himself it was a courtesy, lest her legs betray her; but her skin, white and gleaming with sweat and smug satisfaction, was one of his favorite parts of loving her. 

"It's so hot when you save us and then make me come." She grinned at him, the devil in her eyes. From somewhere far beyond, dusky twilight claiming the rocky hills that surrounded the empty town, the sound of ED-E's battle theme echoed back to them. Reconnaissance had apparently gone south. 

"Looks like there might be a repeat performance." He said, releasing her and reaching for his boots and armor. 

Red grinned, wriggling back into her jeans and picking up her gun. "Fantastic. I love a good encore." 

"You _will_ be the death of me." He vowed, as unable to resist her smile as her touch on his skin.

"Better make it a good one, then."


	7. Epilogue

In the end, Arizona crumbled in the face of her aggression, as all other objectives had. The challenge reared up before her, and she bared her teeth, spit in its face, and laughed. It was comical, the ease with which they dispatched all resistance in their path. Bloody, grueling; and yet it was impossible, moments into the first conflict, to imagine any outcome but victory. The Courier was star-crossed for destruction, conquering the world with a gun in her hand. Boone found he was unsurprised. 

"The King is bringing some men out to help get things running again, in the towns where the Legion's been cleared out. They're going to start in Two Sun." Red bent over a whetstone, sharpening a machete that only that morning had graced the hand of a Legion explorer. The weapons would go to the people who needed them most, farmers and traders trying to rebuild their lives in the wreckage Caesar had left behind. His rule had been acceptable for those of a more mercenary mindset; but the protection he offered the small folk was dubious at best. Arizona had been birthplace to the Legion, but as the Bull charged West, the desert had rolled in to claim what Caesar left behind. Straggling troops fought to keep a grip on lands that had once been theirs, but the Courier had broken the Legion's back for good and all and there were simply not enough of them left to buffer her fury. She was a creature of legend; lone gunslinger of the apocalypse. 

_Good riddance to bad rubbish._ The Courier in question thought, and spat into the dust; squinting against the beam of sunlight the blade of the machete refracted into her face. Pale eyes, faded grey like dusty denim or the barrel of a gun, looked up to find Boone staring at her. He was very still, sniper lining up a shot. "Can I help you?"

"The King? Here?" Boone seemed vaguely incredulous. The King was a gentleman of leisure, and while he ruled his tiny kingdom with a just and sensible hand, Boone could not picture that white suit here amidst the blood and tumbleweeds. And of course, there was history; tapping him on the shoulder, whispering in his ear. 

"Arcade is coming too." The Courier shrugged, as if that explained matters completely. Privately Boone thought the blond doctor only slightly less suited to battle than the King himself - then again, the Courier knew things about Arcade that Boone could only guess at. Above her, carefully and silently following the conversation as he always did, ED-E beeped sneakily. The Courier chuckled, shading her eyes to glance up at the bot. "Yes, I know, you like Arcade. He doesn't like you very much though, so behave and don't be pushy." The eyebot whistled a cheery affirmation that Boone assumed signaled its intention to obey. 

"He wants to set up a hospital while the King uses his soldiers to create a perimeter and teach people how to patrol. It's going to be a lot of hard work, but it's nothing they haven't done before. I have faith in them." She shrugged, thoughtful but placid, and set aside the machete, withdrawing a cigarette from a pack that looked to be on its last leg. Lighting it, she held it out, smoldering ember towards herself. "Want some? I'll share." 

Boone shook his head, reassembling his rifle, the pieces sliding into place with a cold precise efficiency. 

Red studied him carefully, drawing slowly on the dry, old cigarette. It tasted foul, but that was life - the things we love don't always love us, the things we crave will kill us. "Do you think, while he's here…?" Her voice trailed off and she looked down, watching the glowing red cherry eat into fragile paper. 

"If you want to go back to him then go. I won't stop you." Boone said savagely, polishing the scope on his rifle. The exact parameters of their relationship had never been defined, but he had assumed a certain degree of longevity given the shared blood on their hands and hard miles beneath their feet. Perhaps he had been wrong. His throat felt tight, burning; but snipers are good at hiding. From almost everyone…

"Yeah, pull the other one." The Courier teased, and crossed the distance between them, sitting down on the twisted hunk of metal he occupied as a bench. It was nearly too small for the two of them, she pressed against him from calf to elbow, leaning into him in companionable comfort. She looked up at him, bit her lip; and Boone thought he had never seen her look more overtly feminine. It took him a moment to realize it was because he had never seen anxiety on her features before. 

"No, actually… Never mind. It's stupid." She dropped her gaze, bit the sentence off decisively though the silence lingered. 

"What?" 

"I was thinking more along the lines of a _group_ mission." She laid a hand on his arm, an unusually intimate gesture while the sun was up, and stared into his eyes for a long moment, watching realization dawn. 

Boone flushed, swallowed, reached for anger like he would for his rifle - but couldn't find it. Found, instead, the dizzying rush of heat and hunger he had felt when he first heard her on the other side of the wall. It was not an idea he'd ever entertained and yet... And yet. He swallowed again, jaw tight, and turned his head so she saw him only in profile - but it was enough. "I'd have to think about it." He grumbled, so noncommittal and dismissive a ruse; but the Courier only smirked, pink-cheeked, and patted his arm. 

"You do that." She got to her feet, reaching for her pack and her Repeater. "Now come on, these Legion bastards aren't going to kill themselves."

"They might, when they hear you're coming." Boone retorted, shouldering his own weapon. 

Red bared her teeth at him over her shoulder, as feral a grin as she could manage, Arizona sun glinting off white teeth and crimson hair. "You say the most romantic things. Watch my six." 

Boone trained his eyes, beneath their dark lenses, on her ass. "Got it." 

The Courier laughed, and turned to face the desert with a smile and the barrel of a gun.


End file.
